The restaurant was soft and golden and quiet—exactly the kind of place where someone could pretend nothing hurt. Candles flickered low inside glass chimneys. Shadows swayed gently across linen tablecloths. A warm hum of piano drifted through the air like a heartbeat.
It should have felt romantic.
It should have felt safe.
Instead, Willow felt suspended.
Suspended between two storms.
Suspended between the echo of Miles's desperate grip—his breath, his anger, his hands—and the warm solidity of Zane's palm still tingling faintly against her own.
Suspended between the woman she wanted Zane to believe she was…
and the woman who had slid against her own wall an hour ago trying to avoid a kiss she did not want.
Suspended between revenge—
and the man she was dangerously, stupidly beginning to fall for.
